


Clegane Keep

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:01:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Blackwater Bay Sandor is awarded for his bravery with a Keep of his own-- and a wedding.  Cersei is beginning to doubt the loyalty of the Tyrell's, and is desperate to get her brother back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The stars hung in the sky, unwavering in the fathomless black of night. The earth had cooled; the tincture of beauty that the season changing brings was flowering. What was death, now? Even in the South there were hints of the Winter, the inevitable change from the lightness to the dark. Death was everywhere. The green wildfire was gone, but the sick rot of burnt ship wood and flesh mixed with the salt air, wrapping the city up in its scent as it drifted in from off of the bay.

He could have left, should have left-should have taken off from the battle field and gone to another place-that part didn't matter. He could have lit out for the North or caught a ship and travelled to Essos, Braavos, the Dothraki kingdoms, Gods be damned.

The Flowers and the Garden had spikes. The Lion still has claws.

They overflowed in the city now, what was a few hours past a lost cause was now a place of elation. The Baratheon pretender was defeated- long live King Joffrey, long may the walls of King's Landing stay sturdy. _Long may this fucking wine skin stay full._

The stench of death was upon him, the smell of burning flesh all about. There weren't enough wine sinks in the Seven Kingdoms to make the stench go away. There weren't enough whores to fuck, enough men to kill, enough gold to spend to mask it or diminish it. It lingered like poison in the body. It cut through everything, seizing the senses, slaying the better part of his mind.

The smell of perfume in Baelish's whorehouse couldn't cut through it-didn't rectify the problem. In response to their victory, Baelish had given every Goldcloak and member of the Kingsguard a woman for the night and enough wine to drown a man—his construction of the King's gratitude.

He looked down upon her, his eyes bleary from wine and smoke, exhaustion and anger.

_Little Bird'll have to marry the King now._

Her hair was as red as a Tully. Her eyes weren't blue, but what did he care? He couldn't see her eyes when she was sucking upon him. She probably preferred it that way, too. That way she wouldn't have to look at his face. He hated the way they tried, the false seduction. The whores in the wine sinks didn't bother, nor did the groat and ale women of flea bottom-their style was to lift their skirts and avert their faces. They'd take their money and leave, the whole thing behind them.

Baelish's whores were taught to seduce, to pretend. This whore had tried to ply him with kisses and wine, asking him who he wanted her to be.

_Seven Hells, I'd give my life for you to be Sansa Stark._

Instead he just barked at her to shut her fucking mouth and work on his cock. He knew he broke the protocol of Baelish's establishment, went against the function of the whores. He was supposed to seek his dreams in them, sink his hopes in between their legs, live out his disappointments in their mouths. _Bugger that shit._

The stench made it too difficult, he couldn't finish. He couldn't maintain himself enough to relax. He pushed her off of him and put himself away, throwing down coin even though Baelish had given her without charge. He walked back into the night, towards his room, his home. Whatever the fuck home is.

He made it to his bed and didn't bother undressing. The Little Bird-he'd only stayed on for her. If Joffrey had died he would have left easily. He couldn't go and abandon her to him. He was the only thing that stood between the Lion and the Little Bird. He hated himself for thinking of her.

All too often he'd imagined a life where he didn't have his scars and she was just a poor metal worker's daughter. He could have married her, not the Lion gone mad. He'd put himself to sleep with thoughts of her-and what he'd do if he had her. His first idea was always to fuck her, but that somehow transformed into newer thoughts-building her a house, bringing her a flower.

For a moment he didn't notice the stench of burnt bodies in the air.

He closed his eyes and passed out.

* * *

The afternoon had been monotonous, award after award was being given out to the victors of the battle. Lordships were granted, titles were bestowed, marriages were given approval. The day dragged on-and The Hound was in no mood for standing guard. The sunlight and southern heat made the stench even worse. The dead were largely unburied, their wounds were already beginning to decay in the sands and in the streets. The stench of rot and death was everywhere, intermingling with the still omnipresent smell of smoke.

Sandor paid no attention to the comings and goings of business of King's Landing-he hadn't the slightest fascination with it. He regarded it the way he regarded the high prices whores-useless and false. He hated most everyone and everything in King's Landing and couldn't bear to focus on any of it. Joffrey calling for him to stand before the throne shook him from his apathetic duty.

"Dog! Stand before me and the court!" King Joffrey demanded. Without word Sandor stepped down and marched before Joffrey in the midst of the gathering. He'd quit being embarrassed by being bossed around by a child king. Everything hit him in the same way-duty and penance.

"My Grace?" He asked him, his voice flat.

"Your brother is dead. A raven came this morning. You are the last surviving Clegane. Mother says that makes you Lord of the Clegane Keep. I've decided to send you home. You're to maintain the land and the people there. Mother says that you have been loyal to my family so we shall pay you very well."

Sandor's face twitched. He said nothing, his face told nothing. He immediately thought of the Little Bird. He'd not be allowed to stay and protect her. He could have just run the night before and forced her to come—instead he'd waited for her sake, and for what? He hated the appointment.

"Mother also says that I don't have to keep the Stark bitch anymore. I had half a mind to give her to Ser Meryn, but Mother suggested that I ask you if you'd like to take her. I don't care what you do with her. I think she'd make a good house-wench. You could also breed her. Or even marry her-I'm sure she'd hate that. Sleeping in a Dog's bed. Either way, if you don't want to take her with you I'll just let a few men have her and then put her head on a spike."

Sandor watched as the words dripped off of his worm-like lips. He stood calmly, refusing to look at the Little Bird, who he knew was in the audience—he couldn't. For her sake. For his. He didn't want to see the look of horror he imagined was on her face. He only stood and starred at Joffrey, intent on giving nothing away. He stood clenching his jaw, his inner lip being pinched by his incisors.

"It's an honor, my Grace. I will take the Stark Bitch as a slave to the Keep. She'll be mine to deal with from now on." His voice revealed only violence, everything about him pronounced bad intentions. Joffrey smiled.

"Then you're released. You can leave for your Keep at first light. Take the Stark whore with you, or else I might think twice about taking her head."


	2. Chapter Two

Sansa Stark was situated among the rest of the gallery, where she watched the day's proceedings occur. When King Joffrey cast her off her face revealed nothing. She was aware of the eyes that were upon her, looking for some clue as to her emotional state. What was within was not revealed without-ribbons of joy were lashing through her, but her face remained stony. She wore her mask well.

She was free of Joffrey at least. The dread of his abuses would end, though she didn't know to what degree. She'd been pawned off to his Dog. He'd treated her gently, yet she was still afraid of him. He was brash and abrupt, callous and hardened. She could hear a tone of glee in his voice when he agreed to take her on- _he'd deal with her_. She didn't like the sound of that. Yet she was free-better off that what she would have otherwise been.

She could feel, for a moment, Joffrey laying his eyes upon her. He wanted her reaction-he wanted to squeeze the last bit of terror out of her, break her before he let her go. She thought that she should react, acquiesce what she knew he required. She screwed up her face as though she had been beaten and let tears fall down her cheeks. Her display was one of her best-she looked as though she wanted to fight this, hide from her new fate. She gave him that-let him believe that his kindness was better than a Dog's. His eyes filled up with a malicious glow.

She didn't look at The Hound as he strode towards her, the crowds which gathered around her parting until she stood in the midst of everything completely detached and alone. Without warning he pulled her towards him and lowered his face, whispering lowly into her ear "Up you go, Little Bird." He scooped her up and gently hoisted her over his shoulder. Once, long ago, being carried in the court like that would have shamed her. She felt nothing but a staid relief. He'd said it so calmly and lifted her so carefully. For a moment she nearly felt safe.

The Hound carried her to where he'd been standing only moments earlier.

"Your Grace." He addressed Joffrey, waiting to be dismissed.

"The Wolf-Bitch is crying, Dog. She hates you. You'll make her miserable. The traitor deserves nothing but the worst from you. Mother says that she is to remain a Lady, but I don't agree. Forthwith Sansa Stark is stripped of all of her titles. She is no longer a Lady of Winterfell. I've changed my mind-you can't do what you want. She's to be the wife of a Dog. I don't want to give the pretender in the North any ideas of coming to collect his sister. Dog, I demand that you marry her and breed her. I'll not listen to Mother's ideas. I'm King-I've defeated Stannis. I make the decisions!"

Joffrey was addressing Sandor, but the speech was meant for his mother. Cersei had the look of the grave about her-The Hound knew what was on her mind. _Jaime_ -the only pawn to win him back was being ripped away from her and there was nothing that she could do. Joffrey was asserting himself even more than what he'd done before Blackwater.

Sandor said nothing-what could he say? A thousand thoughts clamored through his mind, making it impossible for him to focus on anything but the weight about his shoulders. He nodded and waited, his jaw tense and his head reeling. He pulled Sansa off of his shoulders and turned her towards Joffrey. Neither Sansa nor Sandor had looked into each other's faces. It wouldn't have made a difference; their expressions said nothing of their minds, only of their stations and what was expected of them.

Sansa was audibly crying, her face reddened and slicked with tears.

"Sansa Stark-The Hound is going to take you to your room and empty out your things. You are to take only your clothing and affects, nothing that belongs to King's Landing. You are to stay with him in his kennel into you leave in the morning. As soon as you arrive at Clegane Keep you will marry him in his Sept. He'll send a raven when the thing is done. Perhaps you'll learn to be a good wife by then, wolf-bitch."

Sansa nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"If it please your Grace." She managed to chirp and fell into her curtsy, lowering her eyes to him.

"It does please me. Now go, Dog, and get her out of my sight. She sickens me."


	4. Chapter Four

Sandor called for Sansa to return from his Solar into his bedroom and, upon her arrival, felt odd having a woman in there. He realized, looking at her, that he'd never taken a woman into his own bedroom. He'd never fucked outside of a whorehouse or the back alley of a wine sink; he'd never even had a proper kiss. He glared at her and she gave him a sharp look back.

 

 

 

"You should put on your night clothes and get into bed." He said to her, rather abruptly. Her eyes widened as she looked at him.

 

 

 

"I'd like to remain a maiden until I am married to you, my lord." She stammered, just as abrupt. She looked him straight in the eyes when she said it, her voice strong.

 

 

 

"You think I mean to take you? The bed is yours--go to sleep." He replied dismissively and walked out. He came back a moment later and tossed her night dress on the bed, turning to leave once more.

 

 

 

"Wait." She said, her voice decidedly softer. "I didn't intend to take your bed from you--I'm just not prepared. Please don't feel offended." She pleaded.

 

 

 

Sandor looked at her, grunted, and walked out. He closed the door.

 

 

 

Sansa was once again alone in his room. She stood still for a moment, unsure of herself. She felt badly that he wasn't going to have access to his room or his bed. She'd also accused him of wanting to strip her of her maidenhead. She was actually surprised that he didn't intend to do that. Heavy thoughts coursed through her brain, made more acute by the sense of unease that she'd been carrying all day. All day—that was an understatement. It had been so long since she was sure of herself that it seemed to have happened in another life. She undressed and quickly pulled her nightdress on. She was still in the Red Keep, but being in the Dog's room made her feel much, much more secure than she had been previously. She wondered if perhaps the strange, mean and abrupt man would at least be a protective husband. Her thoughts drifted far from her as she put herself into his bed, pulling his blankets up around her, suddenly realizing that she was being enveloped by his scent.  He’d been called a Dog for so long that she imagined that he smelled like one—she regretted that connection.  Instead, she was breathing in the scent of pine resin, amber and juniper.  It made her feel strangely sympathetic towards him. She thought of home, her mother, her brothers, her little devil sister. She wondered how they were, how Catelyn would react when she heard her daughter had been married off to the King's retainer. If peace ever came, would she get to see her family again? Would he allow it--would her family accept her? The last connection she had with Winterfell, her title, had been stripped. She was too restless to sleep.

 

 

 

She sat up and got out of bed, putting slippers on her feet. She quietly walked to the door and listened to hear whether or not the Hound was stirring. She heard nothing so she cautiously opened the door, letting herself into his Solar. He was sitting quietly in a chair with her book open on his lap, a single candle burning beside him. As soon as her shadow fell into the room he looked up at her.

 

 

 

"What do you need?"

 

 

 

"I was coming for the book--I couldn't sleep."

 

 

 

He closed it and held it out for her. She approached him and gingerly took it into her hands.

 

 

 

"If you aren't done with it I can wait." She offered, gently smiling.

 

 

 

"Take it--I was just seeing what kind of shit these stories are going to fill your mind with." He said, and then shook his head. "You can't sleep, either?"

 

 

 

"No, my head is spinning. I don't know what to think."

 

 

 

He snorted a laugh. "No, Little Bird, you don't know. I don't know what to think, either."

 

 

 

A quiet impasse came between them. She tried to keep looking in his face, forcing herself not to look away. She'd have to learn to look into his eyes, those gray wells of hatred. Eye contact seemed to soften them--at least partially.

 

 

 

"Would wine help you sleep?" He offered.

 

 

 

"I think it might." She tittered nervously. He got up and pulled out a wine skin, pouring it into the only cup that he had. He offered it to her. He'd just drink out of the skin.

 

 

 

"It's Arbor Gold--good, sweet shit that makes sleep easy."

 

 

 

She took a sip and smiled at him--she did like wine quite a bit. He sat back in his chair and she folded herself on the floor, nursing her drink. They both drank in silence, neither knowing how to start a conversation. She cleared out two cups without saying so much as a word to him. Sansa had never spent so much time alone with a man--it gave her a strange, heady feeling of being a grown woman, not a little girl. Drinking alone with a man. Thinking of it made her giggle.

 

 

 

"Do you find me amusing, Little Bird?" Sandor asked her, not feeling the wine as she clearly was.

 

 

 

"No!" She snorted, and began giggling again. "I don't know why I'm laughing."

 

 

 

He smiled at her and tossed back another gulp.

 

 

 

"I think you need to go to sleep or you will feel miserable in the morning." He stood and then bent down to scoop her up. She lifted up easily, wrapping her arms around his neck. She set her head on his shoulder and tightened her grip. Sandor stood still for a good minute, feeling her arms around him. She was drunk, but Gods be damned if it didn't tear at him a little bit. He took her to the bed and set her down gently, waiting for loosen her hands from around his neck.

 

 

 

"Are you going to stay in here with me?" She asked, her voice lilting with a lightly drunken slur. "I want to leave the Red Keep. I don't want to be here anymore. Are you going to stay with me?"

 

 

 

Before he could say anything, she pulled herself up and planted a sloppy kiss on the burnt side of his face and then finally let go of his neck, rolling over to fall asleep.

 

 

 


End file.
